


i will take a ride up to the moon (i'll eat myself a stranger)

by redlight



Series: black and blue (and human too) [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Choking, Disturbing Themes, Experimental Style, Fantasizing, Humiliation kink, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance is pining, M/M, Masochism, Masochist Lance, Masturbation, Metaphors, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Name-Calling, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Stream of Consciousness, Verbal Humiliation, filthy filthy fantasies, haha you thought SHIRO'S pining was bad??, it's all just figurative language tho, its all fantasy tho, unhealthy fantasies?, unhealthy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: Lance has to be really,reallycareful about Shiro – ‘cause it’sTakashi Shirogane, star pilot, spaceman fantasy of his dreams, packaged and wrapped up like a toy he wanted for his birthday foryears. Lance will just – justchew him up, tear his circuits apart with his own teeth, spit him out for fun. And Lance, god, when Lance isdone, he’ll just leave Shiro’s batteries dead and acridand leaking acid, corroded to hell and back from overuse and undercare.Lance doesn't pine, he hungers like a goddamn bloodthirstywitch.





	i will take a ride up to the moon (i'll eat myself a stranger)

**Author's Note:**

> ...i wrote a sequel. haha?? this is a little bit more intense than the previous one; also, lance's pov! and me projecting a lot, yikes. 
> 
> also, uh, the tags are probably really important in this one - disturbing themes, (sort of) self-harm (for a sexual purpose) and the occasional gory metaphor. please let me know if anything else needs to be tagged.
> 
> title from ["nice day" by the romanovs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EyUFfS76Nw)  
> 

_Deepest, darkest fantasies_ is pretty much just the polite term for “ _the most messed up ways Lance wants to get fucked, hurt, and degraded._ ”

Which, okay, Lance gets the whole _safe, sane, consensual_ aspect – and it’s consensual, ‘cause Lance _wants it so bad_ sometimes, ‘cause let’s be real, _he's the kinkiest virgin alive_ , and he's only got his right hand and his left hand on his throat and a entire bottle of space lube that he may or may not have stolen from Keith. And it's safe, because Lance looked this shit up on Earth, okay? He knows how to _not_ choke himself to death or cut circulation off when he messes with the ropes he found in that one castle supply closet – _listen_ , he’s really glad he always used incognito on Earth, what if his family looked through his internet history now that he's probably considered missing? What if his _Mama_ looked through his internet history?

…Which, well, Mama would probably be _way more_ concerned about the fact that her son is _missing_ , how he's not around to see Elena’s graduation from middle school, not around for his nephew Ricky’s sixth birthday, and his big sister Maritza had just gotten _engaged_ and he won't ever be able to see her get married –

But, but thinking about that makes Lance’s throat clench dryly and his eyes prick with saline water, so he doesn't think about that.

 _Anyway_ , Lance is consensual and safe with himself, but _sane_ –

Oh, gosh, sanity.

Sometimes he uses the excuse that _it's just a fantasy_ – a fantasy he wouldn't survive in real life, a fantasy that leaves him terrified of his own thoughts clinging greasily to the rough inner surfaces of his mind. And Lance can get around that – _it's just a fantasy_ , just a daydream, just a nightmare that he can _taste_ as it crawls through his esophagus and claws holes into his lungs and screams inside his thighs.

The problem is that his dumb, stupid, _screwy_ little mind has all his filthy thoughts and squalid feelings _gravitationally entwined_ with Shiro.

 _Shiro_ , Takashi Shirogane, star student and _stellar_ pilot, space school’s super sweetheart, the Galaxy Garrison’s poster boy for _first class spaceman._ Shiro with the scar across his nose, Shiro with the nose that always wrinkles cutely whenever he's confused, Shiro who’s always momentarily confused by Lance’s shitty pickup lines, Shiro’s momentary burst of laughter when faced with Lance’s shitty, sleazy, overexaggerated smirk, Shiro, Shiro, _Shiro_ –

Shiro, who Lance is _fixated on_ , addicted to, obsessed with him like a _goddamn stalker_ , with all the mania of a serial killer and the ability of a pathetically-in-love teenager. Shiro, who’s probably _vanilla as fuck_ , all space daddy kink jokes aside. Shiro who’s _too fucking good_ for Lance’s stupid sense of humor and Lance’s screwy desires and Lance’s _everything_.

See, this is where Sweet Lady Sanity is brutally shoved out the airlock and gets her innards torn apart by the dull vacuum of outer space. Viscera splattering on the ship’s windows for gory, dramatic effect.

Lance _wants_.

Lance wants with the grit of his teeth and the twitch of his trigger-happy fingers. Lance wants suffocation, Lance wants to breathe in nothing but Shiro’s expelled carbon dioxide until he is _nothing_ but another victim of warmthless, merciless, passionless asphyxiation.

‘Cause there's this _thing_ about Shiro, when his eyes are dark as gunmetal, when his voice is rough like he growled too hard during filthy, gritty, _nails-clawing-at-walls-making-me-scream-for-a-god_ sex. Like he smoked an entire pack of cigarettes right after, just to make sure his voice is _ruined_. Which is a funny thought, ‘cause Shiro’s probably so straight-laced and pure that he's never touched a cigarette in his life. But there’s this _thing_ about Shiro when he’s just a little angry and a little irritated. When Shiro easily snaps at Lance for missing _just one_ shot during training. When Shiro spits out an angry, “ _not the goddamn time, Lance_ ,” whenever Lance steps a little too close to an alien, bats his eyelashes a little too much and grins a little too flirtatiously.

When Shiro sees Lance in the castle hallways, and he _freezes_ , eyes darkened and dilated and world-wide. His metal fingers straining and clenched tight like he's trying to keep his control together, running his flesh hand through his hair and muttering under his breath, “ _It's late, Lance, go back to bed_.”

Lance _knows_ Shiro doesn't like him.

But Sanity’s guts are drifting through the emptiness of the cosmos, so what Sanity says _doesn't fucking matter._

It’s in the way Shiro says his name; low, slow, and condescending, like Lance is the dumb little kid who got both his hands stuck in the cookie jar and can’t get them out without begging for a real adult’s help. Makes Lance’s insides twist up with shame, but he’ll take it, god, he’ll _take_ it, he’ll take anything and _everything_ Shiro could give him, anything from the weight of the world to bruises as black and blue as they are.

Shiro makes Lance feel malleable, _changeable_ – makes Lance feel like the water in his body is evaporating into mist, makes Lance feel like the _atoms_ in his body are being torn apart in nuclear fission-fusion- _reaction_ , makes Lance feel hot and wrong and _contaminated_ , like a reactor meltdown, like a radioactive disaster.

Lance feels the irradiated decay in his _bones_ , in his _soul_ whenever he dares to think about it, but he uses Shiro anyway. And it’s sickening, and it’s disgusting, but that’s what it is – Lance _uses_ Shiro, for his own offbeat fantasies, his own loathsome hunger.

Lance has to be really, _really_ careful about Shiro – ‘cause it’s _Takashi Shirogane_ , star pilot, spaceman fantasy of his dreams, packaged and wrapped up like a toy he wanted for his birthday for _years_. Lance will just – just _chew him up_ , tear his circuits apart with his own teeth, spit him out for fun. And Lance, god, when Lance is _done_ , he’ll just leave Shiro’s batteries dead and acrid and leaking acid, corroded to hell and back from overuse and undercare.

So, here it is, here it is, Lance's screwy little fantasies without the restraint of Miss Sanity and her dear friend Realism, _here it fuckin’ is_. When Lance can't help himself, when he's kicking his pants off, when he’s scratching his bitten-down fingernails against the hollow of his own throat. Lance wants Shiro to change him, deface him, fuck him up, make him cry, make him fly, make him _die_ –

So sometimes Lance finds himself toying with the idea of Shiro's fingers locked around his heaving, quivering neck – the choice ‘tween hot flesh and cool metal is a heart-wrenching dilemma. Does he want the knowledge of Shiro's cruelty, full and real and horrid like humans can be, in the best way possible – or something cold and alien and terrifying, unknown and subviral in the spaces between his skin cells, is that what he needs? Thinks about those clenched fists landing in his stomach and holding his fragile wrists down. Lance gets _caught up_ in thoughts of Shiro’s voice, wrecked and gruff and strained, saying things he'd never say – “ _can’t believe you actually like this –_

_you’d_

_take_

**a n y t h i n g _,_**

_you filthy little slut,_

_any repulsive, despicable thing I could ever possibly do to you_

_and you’d_ **love** it,

 _huh, Sharpshooter?_ ”

Just – _god,_ what does Lance even _want_?

Lance _wants_ , but he wants so hard that he can barely tell _what_ he even desires anymore. It's just this ever-aching, unsettling _hunger_ soaking in the plasma of his blood, circulating through his blood vessels.

Maybe he’d take anything because he _wants_ to take anything.

This is where Lance is _stuck_ ; locked within his deepest, darkest fantasies, back soaked with sweat and clinging to his shirt, clinging to his bedsheets. Thinking about thick metal fingers in his hair as his own too-slim fingers pull at his roots. _Craving_ the sensation of being spread open, his bony knees splayed wide around a broad waist. Skimming his fingers down his own collarbones, pinching his thighs ‘til rose-maroon marks rise up from his brown flesh. Pressing the palm of his hand against his mouth and _biting_ dark bruises down as he muffles the breaking fragments of his moans. All by himself, just another daydream, just another screwy little fantasy.

And then Lance always has to wash his stained bedsheets without anyone else in the castle noticing. If the sheets are ever torn from his fingernails tearing at them, or just ruined beyond repair, then Lance _burns_ them in one of the upper floors’ incinerators.

Fuck, sometimes he has to fight the urge to burn _himself_ in the incinerator.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter!!!](https://twitter.com/bubblegumlance) :DD


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